My Constellation
by caprelloidea
Summary: Modern AU. Emma is a bailbondsperson, Killian a scientist. His research puts him at sea for several weeks in the summer, and after a slew of lengthy separations, this one just about pushes them past their limits.


Summary: Modern AU. Emma is a bailbondsperson, Killian a scientist. His research puts him at sea for several weeks in the summer, and after a slew of lengthy separations, this one just about pushes them past their limits.

Notes: This fic is a gift for the wonderful high-seas-swan (on tumblr). Lana, the second the new NEEDTOBREATHE album came out, I sifted through it, found a song that I liked just a touch more than the others, played it on repeat, and wrote this over the course of the past several weeks. I hope you like it! Also, never-ending love and devotion to capaldisrighteyebrow (also on tumblr), without whom this would be a mess. Just a note, this is in no way related to the _other_ smutty science fic I wrote. Inspired by the months I've spent living alone by the sea.

Warnings: Smut

* * *

Killian Jones had once convinced a woman that it was the moments that were worth living. That letting them pass by was a terrible mistake.

Years and years had passed, during which they'd both loved and lost. Out on a bench by the sea, she'd tell him of the parents who abandoned her not long after she was born. He, in turn, would tell her of his mother, of his brother, before they too passed. Together they spent their formative, teenage years in a system that, frankly, didn't care much for them. They'd been separated by circumstances and by passion – he pursuing degrees in the marine sciences, and she as an independent enforcer of the law – before they'd met again in the cobblestone streets of Portland, Maine. They'd reacquainted with one another over the next few years, as he made a career of keeping the research programs aboard research vessels running, and she as a familiar face in southern Maine and New Hampshire.

Then, one unforgettable evening, she'd conceded that, perhaps, he had a point. Not with words, mind, but with her lips on his, pressing hard and wet against him in the dwindling hours of twilight. Just moments after he'd stepped off a research vessel, as a matter of fact, with a tan up to his elbows, salt in his hair and in his lungs. She'd kissed him while the sun painted the waters at his back, while the behemoth of a ship beside them rumbled down deep in its steely belly.

 _No_ , he thinks, standing again on the very same dock, some years later. Killian Jones once _suggested_ to a woman that it was the moments that were worth living. She then proceeded to convince herself.

"Hey," Emma says, rolling her eyes when she comes to a stop in front of him. "That parking – " She waves her hands, hair flipping over her shoulders while she gestures, vaguely. " – stupid parking _guy_ tried to tell me I couldn't park here and, like, listen buddy – "

"Emma, love," Killian says, tugging at her wrist with his prosthetic hook –

" _Captain Hook," she sing-songs._

"Doctor _Hook," he corrects. "A bit morbid for a fisheries biologist, don't you think?"_

" _Whatever you say, Hook."_

– and reaching up to tangle the windblown strands of her hair around his fingers. She huffs, though she doesn't seem altogether displeased.

Killian can see it in her eyes. The same look he knows he must be wearing, the one he _always_ wears when he counts the days they've been together against the days they've been apart.

"The grim ratio," he'd called it, one winter afternoon, when he'd been set to travel to Spain for a two-week conference. "Often no more than one for every one hundred."

Only now, an end approaches as he transitions from a career in tech to a career in academia. Once, years ago, he would have shuddered at the thought. But as much as the sea sings an alluring tune in his blood, he imagines what it would be like – to watch Emma grumble obscenities in the general direction of the so-christened _parking devil-man_ any time he so chooses. To think back on a year after it has passed, and run out of fingers and toes when he counts the weeks they've been together.

It's breathtaking.

It's… _infuriating_.

"Somehow," he says, as she fiddles with the clasps on his jacket, setting him all to rights before he boards, "this seems longer than all the other ventures. _Combined_."

Emma shrugs. "It's just because it's the last in the longest series of goodbyes I've ever had to put up with."

She cringes, even as she says it, but he only smiles in reply. Emma, of course, prefers to bury their woes in irritation, while he figuratively bleeds all over the dock, out for all to see. Effectively – she's said this before – though they live in the same house, it's a long distance affair. Killian can see the very same thought flitting through her mind, pulling at her lips until she's all but pouting at the button on his shirt. It's endearing…although, the longer they stand amongst the bustle as it heads back towards the vessel, and their time draws to a close, the more the thought weighs on him too. This is the _nineteenth_ time he's taken a research cruise without her. He waits and he waits and he _waits_ , but it never gets any easier. He fears himself a bit maudlin, to say the least, but he can't help the ache in his bones whenever he has to tell her goodbye.

"It'll be fine," Emma reminds him. "I'll see you in like a month and a half."

"Six weeks," he says.

"We've gone longer. _Much_ longer. Remember that _year_ – "

"Don't remind me."

Killian says it in jest, of course, though it comes off a bit heavier than he intended. He's an independent adult, Emma even more so, but, for better or worse, he's known the sea with Swan at his side. Convincing his superiors at the oceanographic laboratory that she'd make an excellent tech wasn't difficult, especially considering Emma is _clearly_ smarter than the lot of them. It was a relatively short journey, only four weeks. They'd lain together in the same, cramped bunk. They'd quarreled – as all partners do, particularly when forced to reside in such close quarters. They'd hauled waters up and out from the deep, pulled pranks on their labmates, eaten the same thing day in and day out.

It was marvelous.

Only now, ever since that research excursion, the waters seem a different mistress without her. A bit colder, more tempestuous. His bunk seems miles wide…

No doubt Emma would think him a right fool, and Killian scratches his scruff at the thought. Then again, when he steps even closer – his every breath catches the lapels of his jacket against the strands of her hair, and she reaches up to take a hold of them – he can see her lips trembling.

"I mean…" she says, and tugs until he can smell the hot chocolate on her breath, the cinnamon. "…I guess you were just gone for a long time. And we've been…" She shrugs, and he watches her shrug through her hesitation, through the learned self-protection. Over the years, he's watched her walls crumble – rebuilt only to fall, again and again – though never quite as quickly as when she has to let him go.

"We've just been kinda…separated for a long time this year, is all." Her face twists, and she adds, fingers gripping tighter at his lapels, "Or the past _few_ years, I guess."

He smiles despite himself, tucks his hook between her belt and the fabric of her jeans. "More than _kinda_ , my love. Gone without means of communication, and for three months, two weeks of respite, followed by another two at a conference, then another three months in the Pacific, then – "

Emma tugs sharply at his jacket. "Now don't _you_ remind _me_. You don't have to give me a _list_."

"Turnabout."

She scoffs, but says no more. Killian knows that time ticks away, that his colleagues are expecting him on board in minutes, perhaps less. But, as she says, they've been in various degrees of separation for nearly half the year. Everyone has their limit, and though only six weeks stand between them and a prolonged respite –

"We're gonna go to the beach when this is over."

"Aye."

"A naked beach. With no phones or email and like a million condoms."

"As you wish."

– stretched ahead of them as it is, it feels as though it could be six _months_. And so, with a terrible sigh, Killian pulls her into his arms, tighter and tighter the longer they embrace. She breathes. Shallow, but still, she breathes, and the gentle weight of her chest pressing into his is enough. To get him by, to sustain him through the long nights to come. Even so, he holds her tighter when the fog horn blows, signaling last call.

"I suck at saying goodbye," Emma says, when they pull away. The tears glistening in her eyes tug at his heart, and he has to wet his lips before he answers –

"Well then don't."

She doesn't.

* * *

Despite what others think, the first week is _not_ , in fact, the hardest. The goodbyes are fresh in everyone's minds, but so is the crisp, metallic smell of the ship. For most of them, it's been months since they were at sea, and so they're eager to leave the land behind, to watch the waves turn over and over, as they become still in the longer hours of night, and mirror the stars.

"Nothing quite like the sight of the moon on the waves," Killian says, on their first night. They've done nothing but take yet another inventory of their supplies, organize them around their paltry lab space. Killian has been on no less than eleven research cruises, yet it never fails to irritate him, the lack of space. Still –

"Good to be back," he'd said, to the faint, crackling echo of a voice trapped between the hull, and the crushing weight of the saline waters that lie beyond.

Now that they're sailing into the dark, the captain bids Killian and his fellow researchers follow him on a tour. Though he, Robin, and Regina had been aboard the ship before, they're dragged along as well. Not that Killian minded. Though the boilers sit tight together, and the shadows deep in the maw of the ship are the darkest he's ever seen, it gives him the chance to recall the location of all his _hidey holes_ , as Regina calls them.

"Don't see why you can't chat in the rec room like the rest of us," Robin comments, quietly, where they huddle in the back of the procession.

Killian huffs. "I'd rather not censor myself, thank you."

"That's either cute or gross."

He rolls his eyes, although he can't quite be rid of the flush that creeps up his chest. Though he and Emma have never taken advantage of their time together to release the tight coil of tension that builds the longer they're apart, neither is their conversation completely chaste.

"You do realize you only get to talk to her once a week," Regina says, when the captain – a man by the name of Teach, the sort of fellow Killian prefers to skirt – starts detailing all of the gruesome ways in which they could be incinerated, or crushed, or lost to the depths of the sea if they don't pay the utmost respect to _his ship_.

"Pardon?" Killian says.

"We've got a full house here, Jones, and a finite access to high throughput satellite time. Once a week, thirty minutes."

"You've _got_ to be fucking kidding me."

"That's what you get for skimming the details."

Killian scowls. Despite the harshness of her words, Regina does look sympathetic, tapping gently at his arm as they move up towards the top deck.

"Sorry, mate," Robin says, though his friend says no more as the captain waves them away with a final warning of impending doom and destruction, wishing them all a terse – perhaps a bit sarcastic – good night. Though Killian follows his mate to the bunks, preferring to have a good night's sleep before he has to handle volatile chemicals, he lies awake for the better part of the night. It's not that he doesn't enjoy his time aboard, nor that he can't function without his Swan. It's only…

"Only…" he whispers, so quiet it could be mistaken for a rustle in the room. He turns to his side, and presses his hand to the chilled wall beside him. The vessel around him rocks, but nigh imperceptibly.

 _Only what?_ He can hardly think straight, as tired as he is. Nonetheless, he drifts off when first light pours over the horizon, a dark hollow in his gut.

* * *

"You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me."

Killian laughs. "That's what I said."

There's a muted, rhythmic _thwap_ coming from the other end of the line, and so he suspects she's tapping restlessly against the body of her computer. She rests her chin in her hands, and Killian takes a long, heady moment to watch her wallow in irritation. She's tied her hair up, but loose strands fall in winding rivulets over her shoulders. Though it's dark where they've gone – out in the middle of the churning waters of the Sargasso Sea – he can see the brilliant, dusky colors sifting through the slats in the Roman blinds, and falling over the gentle curves of her face. A particularly stubborn strand of hair falls over her forehead, and she tugs on it while she squirms in place.

"Okay," Emma says. "Okay, it's fine, everything's fine. We still get emails now and then. It's _fine_."

Killian purses his lips. "You sure about that, love?"

She shrugs. "It's fine until I figure out who to beat up."

He laughs, yet again, and delights in the way that it seems to calm her nerves. They spend another several moments just looking at one another, an unbearably comfortable silence.

"I miss you already," Emma says, at length. "You and your stupid hair, and the way you get up at five in the goddamn morning."

Despite the silliness of what she's saying, it comes across heavy, rather burdened. So Killian smiles, softly, and answers the question she asks, there between the lines, between the miles –

"I miss you too."

* * *

See, it's the _second_ week that is, in fact, the worst. Just a week ago, he and Emma had bid an amiable goodbye, she describing in marvelous detail the bail jumper she'd taken down the night before in one of the cobblestone alleys in nearby Portland, and he describing in turn the pod of orcas that had spent more than one afternoon nudging curiously at the hull of their ship.

But now, with the first weekend behind them, and yet another on the way, Killian can see it in the drag of his colleagues' steps. They're excited to be here, certainly, but many of them are in the same boat as he –

"Literally," he imagines Emma would say.

At which he would laugh and…

– oh fuck, he's laughing out _loud_.

"What are you laughing about, Jones?" Regina says, when he passes by her lab.

Killian falters a moment, before he quirks a brow. "How ridiculous you look in that face mask."

She scoffs, the sound muffled behind the aerator that rests over her face, rubber straps pulled tight against the seemingly innocuous substance held steady in her hands. "Well excuse my lungs for preferring not to drown in acid fumes."

He only answers with a jesting roll of his eyes, before he saunters on.

 _I'm going mad already_ , he thinks.

One foot in front of the other, Killian winds his way around the bowels of the ship, rubbing idly at the fresh bandage on his forehead with the cool curve of his hook, hand dragging along the railings. The blue-patterned, steel walkways creak beneath his feet, and the ship gives a particularly violent lurch with the vagaries of the weather. Lucky for him, at least, he's not holding anything dangerous at the moment. And lucky for Regina – who most certainly _is_ – there are barrels of kitty litter lining the halls, meant to douse and contain any and all mysterious spills. The thought alone sends Killian hurriedly out of the sub-deck containing the laboratories. He'd rather not miss his time with Emma because a ghastly liquid is seeping beneath a warbled, aluminum doorway.

As it is, he finds a circuitous route to the main deck, where the computer they use for communication sits beside all manner of complicated equipment. He knows from experience, though, that every last bit of it can be disconnected, and that he can steal away to a nook on the deck above, where he can't be disturbed, and where his shipmates – many of whom he believes are at least half in love with Emma – can't try to monopolize his love.

So, with a furtive glance over his shoulder, Killian tucks the laptop under his left arm, keeping the right free to push quickly through the doors that separate him from the focsle deck. He skirts past the living quarters and into a seemingly random corner, where a gnarled whirl of white-painted pipe serves as something of a table, and a small, circular window looks out upon the stern, and further still upon the seas.

"Alright, darling," he says, to the hefty, curmudgeonly machine propped up against the pipe. "Let's have a chat, shall we?"

As ever, the clunky old computer beeps to life, slightly off key, sounding a little worse for wear. To be fair, a misstep in the lab two decks down had sent a bit of acid its way, corroding away even more of the casing. Then again, it's been through worse – dunked in the sea, dropped in a bin of mud, left behind in the walk-in freezer.

"Don't freak out, Swan," he says, when the call goes through. He's shifted the laptop a bit to his left, so that he's sitting ever so slightly out of range of the camera, where Emma can't see the angry red gash over his forehead, tight stitches stretching the skin taut, beneath the bandage he'd been fiddling with just moments ago.

"That's encouraging," Emma says.

Killian grimaces – half in a slight twinge of pain and half in supplication – and scoots slowly into view.

"Are we in a fight?" he says, when he pulls his hand away from his face. Emma breathes, sharply, but she smiles when he pouts. He expects her to reach out, to caress the screen. She's done it before, babied him through the cuts and bruises of life at sea when he reaches the end of his rope, when he can't hardly stand to look Regina in the eye anymore, when he and Robin sit in stubborn silence in the mess hall. When even _he_ feels a little nauseous through the pitches and rolls.

But Emma only laughs, much to his confusion, at least until she pulls at the sleeve of her shirt – or _his_ shirt, really – to show him her own gash, still red beneath the bandage. Killian frowns, and he does indeed reach out, hook tapping gently against the tempered glass.

"What happened?" he says.

"You first."

He sighs, and recounts the tale. It's not unusual for their equipment to rot, to corrode, out here where the spray of saline water never lets up. Where, in the evening, they have to wipe the salt dried in their eyelashes. Occasionally, it can be dangerous, despite their precautions, and so –

"The worm gear just snapped," he says, gesticulating wildly, if only to see the way she tries to bite the smile off her lips. "The sensor's a bit sharp on the bottom and it just – "

Killian taps at his forehead.

" – cut me right up," he finishes.

"Your life is so dramatic," she says.

Normally, he'd laugh. It _is_ a bit dramatic, come to think of it. Though there's an awful lot of drudgery at sea, the end of the horizon seems to roll straight back into its beginning, like the whole world is made of salt water. The sunsets and sunrises paint over the blues and purples with reds and golds, the likes of which never quite translate to the photographs he sends to Emma. Just a week ago, a young sei whale had followed their ship from morning until night, poking up from time to time, once looking Killian in the eye, its fathomless expression twisting something mighty in the pit of his stomach.

But even so, none of it quite compares to the moonlight on Emma's skin, or the starlight in her hair. She is his Swan, and he is hers.

"I miss you," is all he manages to say, voice thick in his throat.

Emma feels the same, he knows, can see it in the way that she shifts in her seat, how her lips twist, the way that she curls her hair around her fingertips. Though, aloud, all she says is –

"So what did you do _today_?" Her voice, too, is muffled, and quiet, but the normalcy lulls him into something of a familiar comfort. "Besides whine about your face."

"I'll have you know," Killian answers, with the sort of flair that never fails to make her laugh. "I did _not_ whinge about my face." He pauses, and hunches further down in the corner, until only the sky is visible in the window, where the clouds roil in the wake of steady winds. Then, "At least, not since this morning."

Emma smiles, and it looks carefree, or carefree enough.

"Got you," she says.

 _Got you, too,_ he thinks, rather tenderly, though he doesn't say it aloud, content to talk benignly about his day, and to listen raptly as she does the same.

"Okay," Emma says, near to the end of the tale of the gash on her arm, having just gesticulated wildly about the _spray of blood_ , "I'm burning up in this sweater, let me just – "

She reaches for the hem, fingers bunching up in the woolen fabric. He, of course, waggles his brow salaciously, a suggestive noise low in his throat.

"Nope," she says, even as she tugs it over her arms, the thin shirt underneath very nearly following along. " _Nope_. Not after what happened last time."

Killian grins, though it's tempered by the _look_ on Emma's face, "Come now, love, I'm sure Robin's forgotten all about that."

"Yeah, I'm sure he's forgotten _all_ about the sounds you make when you come."

He groans. "Well, when you put it like _that_."

Emma laughs at the exaggerated pout he wears, though it's not without sympathy.

"To be fair," she says, "you totally caught them going at it in some random vault."

"Not just _any_ vault. The _captain's_ vault."

She laughs again, this time louder, the delightful sound blurring through the speakers.

"Or _room_ , that is," Killian corrects, as an afterthought. "It's not a submarine, darling."

"Don't care," she says, yawning as she settles more comfortably in front of her computer, there where she rests, quite literally across the sea. Her head pools into her arms, hair falling into her eyes.

"Alright, Swan, back to your battle wound. Tell me, in excruciating detail, of this _spray of blood_ you were talking about."

Emma smiles. It's soft, and familiar, and he listens attentively as she finishes. When their time is up, and he's closed the lid of the computer, Killian remains in place for several, long moments. The sound of her voice settles warmly in his chest, as well as the way her sweater had stretched out along the neckline, falling in waves over her shoulder, revealing bare flesh. He imagines her mouth, and her thighs, imagines the way the delicate twists and turns of her little ears feel beneath his chapped lips.

But then, when he can just about feel the warmth of her hand drawing sloppy lines over his ribs, a door shuts somewhere down the hall, and he's forced to his feet.

 _Two down, five to go._

* * *

The third, of course, is when it all starts to blur, and the scent of the sea, the rocking of the boat, they all start to fade. Brilliant sunsets, painting the waters with violent reds, burning them until they turn to glass with the onset of midnight, and wickedly early mornings, again and again, until routine sets in. Propriety falls by the wayside, and the lot of them become comfortable enough with one another that their secrets start to spill –

"Did you just put orange juice in your cereal, there, mate?" Robin asks, no judgment whatsoever coloring his tone. When Killian looks down, he can see why, cotton footies down at the end of the man's pajamas.

"Aye," he answers, simply. "Where'd you come by those – "

"Pajamas?" Robin pauses to swallow no less half of his coffee, a twinkle in his eye when he says, "A gift."

" _Not_ from me," Regina says, as she breezes through the mess, seemingly out of nowhere, then immediately back into the shadows.

"Bloody hell." Killian shakes his head. "Forgot how she just _poofs_ everywhere."

Robin laughs. "Watch your back, Jones."

Killian quirks his brow, but remains silent as he finishes his meal, and shuffles back towards the focsle, where his meager clothing lies a bit more haphazard than he would typically allow. He tells Emma this – orange juice and poofing and wrinkles and all – that afternoon.

"It's the blur, isn't it?" she says, voice tinny as she speaks through a wireless seat in her car, sipping at her hot chocolate while she half-heartedly watches for her skip. "Like on the last cruise. Seems like my birthday, Halloween, _and_ Thanksgiving went by before we even noticed."

Killian laughs. "Aye. Too busy using what little time we had to talk getting each other off over satellite."

"Until the Robin Incident." Emma leans forward, then, and fiddles with the dials in her car, likely turning up the heat, content to swelter in layers and by heaters. "Alright, so, tell me. Has anybody accidentally started walking around the forecastle naked? Didn't some PhD student do that when you were gone last June? Or was that the conference in August?"

He laughs. "It was a student, indeed. And no, not as yet. Although I suspect it's only a matter of time. It's been two weeks already. It's bound to happen."

"Uh, _three_ , Killian. It's been three weeks."

He frowns, and checks the calendar on his watch. "Bloody fucking hell, you're right. I'm so behind."

"You _always_ say that."

"S'always true, love."

Emma laughs. "Seriously, though, I can't believe it's already been – "

* * *

" – _four_ weeks."

Emma turns over in bed, jostling the camera as she squirms beneath the covers. The rustling is sharp in his ears – having donned his headphones for the sake of his bunkmates just inside the doors. It's late in the evening – an off-board sampling regime having taken him off the ship for the day – and the halls echo with the sound of the water crushing inward from the sea. The winds are still, and here in the gyre, the waters hardly tremble, dark and profound and unaware, unburdened by the sight of land anywhere nearby. The thought alone sets his lips twitching, thinking of the adventure that lie above, beneath, and beyond.

"Neither can I," he says, quietly.

"You'll miss it, won't you?"

He frowns. "Pardon?"

"The sea. Adventure. Blackmailing Regina with that picture of she and Robin with matching _jammies_."

Killian laughs, and takes a moment to adjust the computer in his lap. "Aye, darling. I always miss the sea, as you say."

Emma hums, and he can tell that she's drifting off, sinking deeper into the bed, limbs going slack, and eyes shimmering with an exhaustion that seats itself somewhere deep in her bones. She's quiet for a good while, and Killian is content to watch her rest for the few minutes that remain, as much as she'll likely tease him about it later.

But then, soft and sloppy –

"Do you think she's mad that you like me better than her?"

Killian quirks a brow. "Who?"

"The sea, Jones, the _sea_."

He shakes his head, smiling fondly, "She's a harsh mistress, you know. Though, I'm sure she understands." Then, softer, fingers dragging a bit of a smear against the screen, one he'll likely hear about in the morning, "I miss _you_ even when I'm with you."

"That makes sense," she says, though she wrinkles her nose, and wrenches her eyes open against some startling thought. "Wait, no it doesn't."

He laughs. "Go to sleep, love. Our time's about up."

Emma only hums in reply, and though it pangs somewhere in his belly, as though there's a thread that ties them together, he _will_ miss the sea. And so, before he too climbs into bed, he leans as far as he can out one of the portside windows, watching the creatures below stir a gently frothing wake into the waters below.

* * *

It's early on a Tuesday morning, and it just so happens to be his day without any duties. _And_ , coincidentally, his day with Emma. As ever, Killian rises with the sun, unable to break the habit. He shuffles out of bed and to the mess, where he indulges in a bit of hot chocolate alongside his usual breakfast. The air filtering in through the windows is fresh and clean. The sun is muted by wisps of clouds, shattering into diamonds alongside the turn of the gyre. It makes him think of Emma, and there in the heavy shafts of light, he struggles to remember the _exact_ constellation of freckles over her back, and it makes him dig the metal of his prosthetic into the table.

"Watch the angst, Jones," Robin says, not unkindly, when he lumbers in, carrying a net full of a dozen or so fish, still wet, fresh out of the sea. Killian ignores the comment, instead fixating on the flatfish the man lugs towards the back of the kitchen, where Leroy too is grumbling about the marks Killian tends to leave behind when he's – and this is certainly _not_ how he would phrase it – _brooding_.

"Plaice?" Killian says, nodding towards the fish. "We must be nearing the coast."

"We must be nearing _Emma_ ," Robin teases. Then, mostly to himself. "I suppose we'll be having fish for dinner, then. What a novelty."

"Not all of us have the great fortune to travel with our loves," Killian grumbles.

"The fortune of it all depends on the turn of the tides, my good man."

"What the bloody hell does that mean?"

"Still too early for metaphors, eh?"

Killian grumbles, says nothing in reply as the noise in the kitchen doubles, then triples with the fish spilling into a vat. Though they're fresh, the water still smells of rot, like it always does, and so he resolves to take his time earlier than he typically does, meandering through the ship and towards the stern, where the deep sea diver is tucked away for the remainder of their journey. With a glance thrown over his shoulder, he tucks in between the railing and the great, steel launch that curves up and over the deck. He'd pilfered the laptop and the booster from the lab when he'd passed through, and though he's been scolded for it before, he doesn't think he can look at her in the depths of the ship, where the water pressure bellows against the metal, rending through the air with a crisp _un_ familiarity. He's never known her down where the air is stale, never tasted her where the darkness is thick and heavy and loud. So he calls her up here, instead. She's stood on this very deck before, as a matter of fact, jokingly proclaiming herself the king of the world –

" _Don't you mean queen, love?"_

" _I can be whatever the hell I want."_

" _I don't doubt it."_

– before enticing him off the pier and back to their home just off the slope of the coastline, where the sweet smell of salt and spirea bushes linger along the windowsills. The difference being, of course, that the chilly, damp metal of the railing behind him replaces that gentle scrape of her nails against his back. That the dented plastic of computer on his lap feels nothing like her skin, soft, giving way beneath his fingers, warm and sweet and –

"Hello, Swan," he says, quietly, when she answers.

" _Wow_ , it's early. Don't you have stuff to do?"

Killian laughs. "Good morning to you too, my love."

Emma rolls her eyes, though she looks sheepish as she readjusts the laptop on the kitchen counter, upon which rests the world's largest coffee cup. He can hear the sound of banging, the tinkle of silverware, and the scrape of the chair against the flooring before she hunches over the computer, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

"Early as hell," she grumbles, though she smiles in answer to his sheepish shrug.

"Sorry. I was eager, I suppose."

She hums. "Only a week, now."

They linger in silence for a while, and Killian sits a bit higher on the railing, leaning back so that she can see the horizon. Their quiet solitude remains uninterrupted, and they revel, both in the tender pain of having been separated for so long, and in the scant days between now and the moment during which he'll _finally_ hold her in his arms again.

"So," she says, like she always does, in one form or another. "What did you do _today_? Or yesterday, I guess."

He snorts. "I did fuck-all, it's my day off. Robin caught quite a load of fish, though. I'm sure we'll be eating them for the remainder of our time here."

Emma laughs. He proceeds to tell her of the goings on. Of the way the gash on his forehead has faded to pink, the sweep of his hair covering most of it, and of the way that Regina eyes the growing length of his hair with disdain, certain to demand he tie it back at any moment.

"Oh my _God_ ," Emma says, nearly choking on her cereal. " _Do it_."

"It's not _that_ long, Swan."

It's not long, of course, before he has to log off, but with a pronounced lightness in his step, the sound of Emma's laughter echoing between his ears as he sets off to be a pain in Teach's side.

* * *

 _Eighteen hour days_ , Killian thinks derisively. The last week is always something of a rush. Some projects, by necessity, will remain unfinished, carted back to the labs with utmost care. Others simply _have_ to be finished at sea, and so he and his shipmates find themselves working long into dark.

 _Likely fourteen more_ , he thinks, if he's to finish washing the glass he's used in the acid bath. He's wearing the plastic prosthetic that Regina had developed for him several months ago, claiming it was because –

" _You shouldn't get out of acid washing just because you only have one hand."_

" _The color on your cheeks is telling me a different tale, love."_

" _Shut up, Jones."_

– before she'd stalked away, flustered by her own kindness.

 _Evil Queen indeed_ , he thinks, as chugs along, rinsing each bottle over and over again before he sets it carefully to the side. _Could have fooled_ me _._

When it becomes clear the remainder of the glass will be impossible to wash without giving up sleep entirely, Killian calls it quits, laying the modified prosthetic out by the glassware. Normally, he'd take a nap, slumping over on his desk up the hall for an hour or two before morning comes. But, as it were, Emma awaits, likely watching for yet another skip, as she'd told him, but still eager to hear from him. He wishes it were the other way around, that he could wait for her for a change. Guilt tends to niggle somewhere low and unreachable in his belly near the end of his trips, when it feels like he's moving and she's waiting. Then again –

"You're literally waiting to come home on a _ship_ ," she tells him, once the computer is nestled in his lap. "We're _both_ waiting."

"Aye, I suppose."

"You're just being melodramatic because you're tired."

He nods.

"And because you and Robin watch too many soap operas."

Killian huffs. "There's limited entertainment on board, love."

Emma laughs. "Whatever you say, Dr. Jones."

They lapse into a tired silence, though he hears rustling, and then a light flicks on. He frowns when he recognizes their bedroom.

"I thought you were chasing that skip. Will something-or-other?"

Emma smiles. "Caught the bastard in half an hour, flat."

Killian smiles in answer, proudly affirming, "Because you're brilliant."

"Because he was _stupid_."

"Because you're bloody _marvelous_."

She tells him in wonderful detail about the man and his attempts at hiding from her. As she tells it, he'd been more than a few sheets to the wind, humming the theme to _Mission Impossible_ as he'd lumbered down an alleyway. One of his labmates pokes their head through the door when his laughter grows raucous, and he apologizes, though not without a few, pathetic wheezing noises when she finishes with –

"I didn't even have to cuff him, I just convinced him that whatever he was babbling about was in the drunk tank."

Silence descends yet again when the laughter dies. With a terrible yawn, Killian pillows his head on one of his sweaters, piled up on a counter in the dry lab space, where he's certain no nefarious chemicals linger. He gazes at her for a long moment, and it's something about the way her hair is tousled, he surmises, or the way that she stretches, that makes his voice catch when he whispers –

"One more day."

It's long past the dead of night, and here in the north, even running on Atlantic time, the sun begins to flood the inky black of the sea before the clock strikes five in the morning. Light, he knows, must be creeping across the water, the heat of the sun setting the wind turning round and round the sea, where the waves are beginning to stir.

But here in his lab, gnawing on ginger gum and half lying on his side, all he cares for is the way the lamplight falls over her face.

Emma hums. She too lays on her side, clearly much too tired to go on, though she stays with him nonetheless. Typically terse and endearingly non-descriptive in the scant emails they're permitted to send and receive –

" _Swan, your last message consists of a single sentence."_

" _I thought you'd want to know that a new coffee place opened up, okay?"_

" _I love you too, Emma."_

– she'd written him three paragraphs, how she'd cleaned the house the way he always did before he'd gone, scrubbing it spotless, and this line he will never forget, "…fuck in every room at least like twenty times before it has to be cleaned again."

"When are you docking?" she slurs, though she blinks herself awake, likely paying attention so that she can, in rare form, be punctual.

"Not until seven o'clock," he lies. He plays it as coolly as he can, pretending he isn't quite as alert as he is. He holds his breath, and covers is with a yawn. Luckily, the stretch of his mouth actually _does_ get him yawning, wracking his whole body as he squirms beneath the thick, blue quilt.

"That's stupid," she says.

"Aye."

"I guess at least I'll already have had dinner."

He hums. They're quiet for a good while, and his eyes begin to droop. In the shadows, it almost appears as though she's fallen asleep. Though, before he can break the connection, she shifts into the light, her eyes shimmering deep and green, like the crystalline waters stretching out over the coastline to the west. They're wet, like they usually are when she's tired, but when she blinks, a tear rolls down the slope of her nose. His nostrils flare, his jaw clenches, and one of his own is quick to follow, catching in his beard.

"This is stupid too," she says, hoarse and quiet. "We're seeing each other _tomorrow_."

"I can't help it, love," he says, truthfully. "You're beautiful and I'm lonely."

She sighs, her exhaustion getting the better of her, and him, for that matter. "Blunt."

"Can't help that either."

They part, at last, in a near silence, but not without pronounced sniffling on both ends of the line. He'd think himself pathetic, but considering the separation they've endured for so many months, Killian knows that only a fool wouldn't miss Emma Swan with everything they have to give.

* * *

They arrive home just after dawn the next day, only hours after he bid Emma a farewell. The fog is peeling back over the shore, thick and white, like the crease of a soggy envelope. Killian and Robin stand near the bow. The equipment has long since been stowed. They're bearing no deep sea diver, though still, it will be a day's chore to unload the ship. Though the captain is a bit overbearing for his tastes, Killian still always stays to help. It's the least he can do, he supposes, given his habit of tucking away in random corners, where it seems he's always in the way.

"You told Emma we were getting here late tonight, didn't you?" Robin says.

Killian blushes, scratches gently at the back of his ear, pulls at his belt with his prosthetic. "Aye."

Robin laughs, even as the ship comes to a halt, and scientists and sailors alike begin scurrying about the deck – barking orders across the stern, likely just as eager as the rest of them to see their loved ones.

"You're hopeless," Robin teases. "A hopeless romantic. How does Emma put up with you?"

"I haven't the faintest," Killian says, truthfully.

He really doesn't.

* * *

Many hours later – supplies carted back to the lab, the last of the plaice fried and eaten in one last hurrah on the foredeck – Killian has done all he can to help. A few crew members will remain behind to do what he can't, things outside his area of expertise.

"You'd only be in the way," Leroy had said, though he'd clapped Killian on the back in thanks. He'd then, rather unceremoniously, shoved Killian towards the door. He'd complied, gathering his bags – one on his back, one over his shoulder – and stepping off. Though he'd been on and off deck all afternoon, it had still felt a bit disorienting, walking where the shift of the land over the earth below is too minute to detect. His first step had been a bit of a mistake, sending him rocking to the side. But then, with a deep breath, he'd carried on down the pier, and off towards the parking lot.

Now, he walks down the street. It's long past the tourist season, and it's a Tuesday night, so it's a bit deserted. It's still twenty 'til seven, according to his diver's watch, and so he walks slowly towards the lot just a mile or so up the road. He looks up and around as he goes, watching the gentle breeze play in the branches of the oak trees. The colors on the leaves are brilliant, and – though nothing will rival the reflection of the light in the water, of a horizon latching somewhere deep in his gut, and tugging him ever onward – it's quite the sight to behold. The old saltbox style buildings around him are wrapped in painted wooden siding and wood shakes, catching the wind and turning it softer on his face. The afternoon had been unseasonably warm, and so the scent of tar lingers in the air, alongside that of gasoline and fried foods. It's almost unbearably familiar, and all of it – from the parking meter he nearly crashes into, to the young woman walking her dog on the other side of the street – reminds him of Emma.

 _Emma, Emma, Emma._

It's still a few minutes 'til when he reaches the lot. Surprisingly, it's a bit full, but there's no sign of Emma's yellow Bug. His heart begins to pound. In minutes, she'll be back where she belongs, he'll be back where _he_ belongs, and the thought – of her hair tangling in his hook, of her skin warm beneath his fingertips, of the exact shade of green in her eyes – sets his hand shaking.

"Killian?"

 _Killian?_

The sound of his name echoes in his mind, and for a moment, he wonders if he imagined it, if his mind is playing tricks on him, if the sea has sunk down into his blood, telling him tall tales and rising up in him with the voice of his love.

Even so, he turns, and _this_ –

"Emma," he says, and lets his bags fall to the ground.

– this he knows is real. There is no force on Earth, no swell of the sea or turn of the meters and meters of soil beneath his feet that could conjure up the face of Emma Swan.

"Emma," he repeats, louder, and walks towards her, arms held open. He should run. He should _run_. But his legs won't cooperate, and it seems she's doing all the running for him, crashing into his chest until he's stumbling backwards, until the tail of someone's truck is digging into his back. But there's nothing for him, _nothing_ that could distract from the way her lips fall over his, tasting of hot chocolate and _Goddammit_ –

"Those _terrible_ orange breath mints," he says.

"Like stale coffee," she answers back, pauses to kiss him, to lick into his mouth, to map the set of his teeth, to curl around his tongue, like she's checking to see if anything's changed, if she remembers it right.

"Over-chlorinated water," he says, when she breaks away.

"Cheap rum."

Killian laughs, and at last, the weight of her in his arms, the taste of her tongue in his mouth, the curl of her hair falling over his shoulder, a few loose strands tickling at his nose – it all crashes down on him, feeling more real than it ever has, like he's met her for the first time, like he's spent centuries loving her, all at once.

"Emma," he says, kissing all over her face, desperation in the way he clutches at the back of her neck. She echoes the feeling, her lips chasing his, fierce noises and fiercer fingers dragging through his hair. "Swan. _Emma_. I'm such a fool, such a _fool_. To ever even _think_ – "

"Don't _ever_ leave like that again."

He holds onto her, hand clutching at her waist, and hook catching on a rumple in her jacket. With a terrible sigh, he tucks his face into the crook of her shoulder. In some ways, it feels as though he never left. The air, so close to the sound, smells the same, sweet and salty and a bit overbearing. He's talked to her regularly enough that her voice doesn't feel foreign, as it has on ventures further afield. Even so, when he thinks of leaving yet again – as they both know he'll have to from time to time in the years to come – he hugs her so tight that she makes a gentle noise of protest.

"Sorry, love," he says, setting her back on her heels. "It's just – "

"I know. And _I_ just – "

"I know."

Emma smiles up at him, and he down at her. There's a smattering of other vehicles around them, a person milling about from time to time. But, for a good while, he's content to look at her – pressing a kiss to the swell of her cheek, from time to time, or to the tip of her nose, delightfully pink from the chilly breeze rolling in off the water.

"We should go home," she says, quietly, though she appears to have no intention of moving. "Sometime, at least."

"Aye," he says, just as quiet, voice nearly overtaken by the swell of a foghorn from the mouth of the bay. "Sometime."

Sometime, as it turns out, is long after she's kissed him senseless once more, much to the chagrin of the passersby. Killian can't bring himself to be sorry, no matter how they gawk with some measure of disdain.

"They're just mad they don't get to kiss you too," Emma says, into his mouth.

He laughs, though, with one last, lingering drag of his lips over her jaw, Emma pushes them to the car.

* * *

Killian had figured the tension would snap, that the second they walked through the door, he'd turn her around and fuck her right there, remember everything about her with the press of his fingers, with the stroke of his tongue. But from the moment Emma turns off the ignition, the longing between settles into something much gentler. When they walk through the door, he places his shoes neatly beside hers. He tucks his bags into the closet, to be unpacked at a later time. He pulls off his jacket, all the while watching her out of the corner of his eyes.

Emma watches him in return, and the warmth in his gut floods down to his toes. Killian realizes – when she crowds him by the window in the living room, hands laying over his chest – that nothing he'd imagined all those months away could ever compare. That the increasingly lurid fantasies he'd had while away – stroking himself in the cramped restroom on deck three to thoughts of having her hard and fast in every corner of the house, they pale in the light she shines on him. Here, with a crooked smile, her hair falling into her eyes, the sound she makes in the back of her throat when she sighs – he's never been more aroused in his life.

He's never been more in love in his life.

"So," she says, reaching up to pull at the collar of his shirt, until his forehead tips down, resting gently against hers. "What did you do today?"

Killian laughs, soft and breathy, straight into her mouth. And though he's kissed her – and _been_ kissed – again and again and again, when he presses the laughter away from her lips with his tongue, his legs feel unsteady. So he reaches his arms around her, and leans, until she's holding at least half his weight. He imagines she'd protest, given any other day, but she merely burrows her head in the crook of his neck, nosing at the collar of his shirt. She breathes, and he can feel her breasts pressing against his chest. Again and again she breathes, stirring the longer hairs flipping up and out behind his ears.

"I can't even remember," he answers, truthfully. "I thought of nothing but you."

Emma nods, and he can feel her hands sliding up his back, until her nails are scratching gently at the base of his neck. He hums, pulling back to look down at her. And he stares. Stares and stares, until her cheeks grow pink under his gaze. When he smiles, she smiles back, and his stomach twists and turns, both burdened and lifted by an affection so great, so terrible, he can hardly stand it.

"Quick, love," he says, leaning down until his nose nudges hers. "Kiss me before I embarrass myself."

She laughs. "Are you thinking about how much you love me?"

"Aye."

"In iambic pentameter?"

Killian laughs in turn, until she heeds his request, and kisses him, long, but chaste, the barest touch of her tongue against the seam of his lips, against the flat of his teeth. She pulls away, and breathes deep. He expects her to speak, but she only presses back in, a bit less chaste, telling him she loves him too, with the wordless, yet still poetic sweep of her tongue against the ridges along the roof of his mouth.

"Emma," he says. She pulls back, just far enough that he can say, hand and hook alike tugging at the loops of her belt, "Sit with me, love?"

 _On the porch_ , he thinks, but he knows he doesn't need to say it out loud. When they'd first bought this ramshackle excuse for a home in the depths of December –

" _We're_ mad _, Swan, buying a house in a New England winter."_

" _If we can take it in winter, we can take it_ always _."_

– they'd been trapped inside, more than once, by the drifts of snow, smelling of sawdust and plaster, wood smoke and wood stain. Needless to say, when spring had arrived, they'd practically _lived_ on the front porch. Before they'd cobbled together a right, matchless mess of chairs, they would lie on the wood, and watch the spiders scurry along the ceiling of the overhand. It smelled of cedar, the newer shakes on the exterior walls still leaking sap. Killian takes a deep breath, just as a breeze trips through the open window, and the smell settles warm and welcoming in the pit of his stomach. Emma watches him, and smiles, allowing the moment to stretch taut before she wraps her fingers around his hook, and pulls him outside, ultimately settling in a chaise facing the west, where the sun bleeds out over the marsh.

"Pardon," Killian says, "but didn't we used to have more furniture than this?"

Emma wriggles – as is her way, warming his blood, down to his bones – pressing her back harder against his chest, turning her head so her ear rests over where she's told him before that his voice rumbles loudest.

"I chopped it up."

He laughs. "I assume that's a euphemism?"

"Nope. I chopped it right the hell up. It was driving me crazy."

"And where has this furniture been laid to rest?"

"Oh," she says, offhand, turning again until her feet are wrapped around his, "I threw it away. It was too big to fit in the trash, so I chopped it up."

"You're mad." Killian tangles his fingers with hers, pulls at her sweater with his hook so she rests heavier against him. "I love you."

Emma only hums, and leads them to the comfortable chaise that rests down in the corner of the porch, where they can watch as the shadows swallow up the light. It's always been her favorite time of day, he muses, as she settles between his legs, back resting light and warm against his chest. Something about how the trees sprawl like great, lumbering shadows against a deep, dark blue sky. Silently, she surveys them, head lolling from side to side as she watches them rustle.

"I love you too," she says, at length, and with one last, lingering look to where the marshes lay beyond, she turns to look up at him. Hardly a moment passes before he kisses her. Where he meant to tell her all the ways that she rivals the beauty of the forest and reeds and waters that lay beyond, he instead marks it into her mouth, with gentle turns of his tongue over her teeth.

Emma twists in his arms, and by the time her hips rest flush against his, he's already breathing heavily. The tension that he'd expected to snap only an hour ago, it breaks. But not all at once. In stages. Beginning with the touch of her fingers to the swell of his cheek. Another crack when she pulls the straps of his prosthetic over his head, letting it clatter to the floorboards below. And another when she finds the burn up near his elbow, whispering nonsense against it, and squirming restlessly above him.

"I have to admit," he says, breathless, pausing when she tugs his shirt over his head. "I would have bet you'd have come at least have a dozen times by now."

Emma pauses, shuffles back to pluck at the buttons on her own shirt. "Pretty sure it was you who said we have all the time in the world."

He smiles. "Semantics."

The smile fades, predictably, when she tugs at his belt, further still when she urges him to help peel away her own clothes. It never ceases to be a boon, Killian realizes, that they're as isolated as they are. He appreciates this the more layers they shed, and the harder he becomes. He's not sure he could make it inside, not when the desire pricking at the tips of his fingers begins to rage, not when – with the touch of her lips to his chest – the coil in his belly is undone, and he hugs her tighter than he probably should.

"Sorry," he says, though he can't bring himself to mean it, not when she embraces him with just as much fervor. She kisses up and around his cheeks, where moisture threatens. She shakes her head, and her nose rubs against his jaw.

" _I'm_ not sorry," she says. Emma stands, then, and shakes off the last of her clothing, tossing her pants rather comically over her shoulder. One of her socks ends up over the railing, and in the bushes. She hesitates, looking longingly at the patterned knitting –

"Don't you dare, Swan."

"My _sock –_ "

"Can _wait_."

– before she settles back in his lap, wriggling until his flesh slips wetly against hers.

Perhaps, before they'd been tried by so many separations, he would have picked her up, and turned her over, making very careful love to her long into the night. Perhaps, before he could count the number of hours they've spoken in the last two months on his hand, and one of hers, he would have turned her to face the stars, seated gently inside, coming to the sway of her hair against his chest, to the clench of her body around his.

As it is, Killian can hardly put himself to rights, can hardly remember what he's supposed to do. Emma takes his hand in hers, and smiles indulgently, breathing hot and wet over his fingers before guiding them between her legs.

"Hurry," she whispers, against his ear.

"Pardon," he says, caressing until she begins to arch, pressing harder against his cock. "I seem to have forgotten my place."

She laughs, taking hold of his face in her hands. There's a sheen over her eyes, and he can't decide whether it's from the rhythmic push and pull of his fingers, or from the realization that he's in her arms, that he's where he belongs, that it will be a year, perhaps more, before he has to leave again.

"Your place," she mocks, smiling even wider when he nods, and laughs in turn. "You mean fucking me on the porch?"

Killian means to jest, but when he pushes one finger, then another, inside of her, her eyelashes flutter, and she leans back, the faint light spilling down from the sky falling in strands of silver over her skin. Her hair tickles at the tops of his thighs. She opens her mouth, and a soft, breathy sigh somehow manages to echo against the earthy woods around them. The smile falls from his face, and he can only imagine the look on his _own_ face.

"With you," he says, quietly. "Wherever you go."

Emma looks down at him, and the smile she gives is watery. He leans forward, presses his lips and tongue over her heart. She tastes faintly of the salt that lives in the marshes around them. When he pulls away, she buries her fingers in his hair, and tugs until he presses harder between her legs.

"Pretty sure _you're_ the one who's always going," she teases. Then, with a sigh, forehead pressing hard against his, her smile fades as well, and she pulls harder at the hair flipping up and out along the nape of his neck. Pulls and pulls, rocks and rocks, until he can feel her about to unwind above him.

"You too," Emma says, simply. "My place, I mean. With you."

Killian smiles, though he remains quiet, a bit of rarity for him, particularly when he's making love to her.

Yet, he only watches. Watches the pink flood her cheeks, and the rounds of her ears. Watches the flush spread down to her chest. Steadies her with his left arm, encourages again and again, until she comes, sighing long and loud against his neck, shuddering around him and above him until she falls into his arms, her hands pressing hard and flat against his shoulders, warming the skin beginning to chill with the approach of midnight. And though he strains against his stomach, pressed between them, he holds her. Just holds her, until her breathing returns to rights, and the air around them sinks deeper into night. The insects clinging to the bushes, and to the reeds down along the banks, sing loudly, nearly overcoming his voice when he says –

"I love you."

Emma smiles when she answers, he can feel it against the arch of his jaw, "I know."

"More than anything," he elaborates, lips dragging delicately over her face, over her neck, down to her breasts. "More than that damn ship. More than anything I could ever find in the sea. More than the stars – "

"I'd hope you'd love me more than random fireballs."

" – than the _stars_ ," he continues, smiling when she pinches his side. Though he sobers when he catches the expression on her face. The one she often wears when her past comes back to bite her. When she dwells too hard on the parents she never knew, on the terrors of the system they both grew up in. So, when he speaks, he holds her gaze, bare wrist pressing against her back, holding her as close as he can. "More than anything. More than anyone."

Emma bites her lip, pauses for a good while, before she answers, truthfully, "I know. I really do."

"Good."

He shuts up, then –

"Only because I _told_ you to shut up."

"Shh, love, bad form to break your own rules."

– and urges her to lift off her knees, to end the agony that pulses between his own legs.

"Wait, wait," Killian says. "I seem to recall something about a million condoms?"

Emma smiles, and reaches down to take him in hand, his eyes rolling back into his head.

"IUD," she pants, sidling closer still. "Nifty little son of a bitch."

Killian huffs a quiet laugh – "Thank God." – and pulls her hips flush against his.

Emma looks down at him when he slips inside, wordlessly begging that he not look away. He plants his feet on the chaise, pressing back against the cushion. For a sustained, beautiful moment, she only looks at him. And he at her, breathing longer and louder until her hips are flush against his. Caught in the moment, it becomes clear to him, that she's like heaven descending from the skies, more brilliant than the waters around them, the salt ponds that paint the sky in darkness. When it seems Emma can bear it no longer, she rises, and falls once more, pulling at the embers that spark at the base of his spine. He rocks to meet her, but only just barely, too caught in the vision she makes, moving above him, bathed in the moonlight that only just now rises above the trees.

"Sometimes I wonder," he pants, tangling his fingers in the hair curling around her neck, "why I do it. _How_ I can do it…"

Emma moves steady against him, though she falters when he pulls her tighter against him, rolling his hips in time with hers.

"Do what?" she asks, catching his eyes with hers, refusing to let go.

"Leave you," he answers.

"You love what you – " She inhales thickly when he tugs at her hair, thrusting hard for just a moment before he slows. " – what you do."

"Aye," Killian says, smiling, though his breath grows labored when she quickens her pace, pleasure building hotly in his blood, rushing to bite at the tips of his toes. "There it is."

Emma takes several moments to answer, arching her back and spreading her legs even wider, rocking with more and more urgency.

"There _what_ is," she breathes.

"The reason," he says. "For what I do."

Killian means to elaborate, but the sweat slicking their skin has him holding tighter. He reaches down to thumb gently at her clit, wide circles that nudge her to climax, shuddering again and again, pulling him over soon after, with a cry muffled against her shoulder. He leans back against the chaise – hadn't realized he'd pushed forward – and takes her with him, until they're a pile of limbs, growing cold in the night, sweat drying quickly on their skin.

The atonal chorus around them rises, in both pitch and volume, the moon turning higher in the sky. He can hear birds squawking noisily in the vegetation, the odd splash in the water. The sounds bleed into the quiet, but it's pleasant. Almost unbearably so, after falling asleep night after night to the screech of metal, to the deep, admittedly foreboding _click click_ of the seawater against the hull of the vessel. In fact, despite the chill, and the tickle of the odd moth fluttering by his face, he thinks he could, perhaps –

"We are _not_ falling asleep out here."

He laughs. "I'm remiss to move, darling."

"It's fucking _cold_. Also, we're all..." She wrinkles her nose. "…sticky."

Killian tuts, even as he shifts to lift her in his arms, silencing her weak protests with a press of his lips to her forehead. "Off to bed with us, Swan. We can wash in the morning."

She nods, and curls tightly around his neck. Typically, he imagines he'd never get away with it. She'd always preferred to stand on her own two feet, in every way. Still, riding in the wake of their reunion, she seems content. To tug at his hair, to tuck her feet tighter when they reach the stairs, to simply watch as he pulls the covers up and over her chest. Even to wait as he situates himself, flicks the switches to turn on the ample fans on the ceiling and in the window.

"What did you mean?" Emma says, when he's settled himself above her, head resting on her chest. For a moment, he doesn't answer, and she doesn't press, lost in the familiar _tick_ of the decorative cords on the fans against the false, wooden blades. Lost in the beat of her heart, in the crack of her jaw when she yawns. Lost in the smell that drifts in through the window, the sweet smell of gentle decay that follows close on the marshes by the coast.

Then, at length, "Sorry?"

"The reason," she echoes. "For what you do."

"Oh."

Killian lifts his head, then. It's dark as can be, but he can still see the shimmer of her eyes in the ink of night. He shuffles forward, until he can press his lips to her chin.

"It's you," he says. "I couldn't have done any of it without you."

She squirms a bit beneath the press, but doesn't look away. "You would have gotten by."

"Survived, perhaps. But not _lived_. You give me the courage to try for what I want. You tell me I…that I deserve it."

"Because you _do_."

He smiles. "You see?"

She squirms harder. "You're such a sap."

He only smiles wider, sets his head back over her chest. Long moments of silence and stillness pass. But then, with a sigh, she stirs beneath him, until both of her hands – one cradling his neck, the other twisted in his hair – hold him tighter. Against the onslaught of sensations – his own sheets brushing against his legs, the familiar smell of wood and particle board, the tinkle of the glass, the light smack of discombobulated insects against the screens in the windows – these are the strongest. Her body against his, familiar and new, all at once.

"I feel the same way about you, you know," Emma says, very nearly startling him out of a half-sleep. He's too tired, too content to move, but he nods, trusting she'll decode the scratch of his scruff against the tender skin of her chest.

"Aye."

"I love you too."

Killian smiles, weakly, before he falls to sleep, and answers, smiling against the tug of her hands in his hair –

"I know."


End file.
